A New Beauty
by XxPhoenix FlightxX
Summary: Deathstroke has heard rumors of a mysterious youth, trained for years to be the deadliest assassin ever known. This will be the end of his search for an apprentice, if he can track them down. No OCs, AU one-shot, vaguely a song-fic. Minor violence and mention of death.


A New Beauty

Deathstroke was looking for an apprentice, someone to train to take on his mantel and become a partner. Not that he expected to die anytime soon (or possibly ever, for that matter), nor did he plan on retiring. It was just that William was getting old, and Grant was long dead. He liked working alone, but it was better to have allies. What better ally than a young student, molded by himself into a perfect and loyal partner? His first attempt had been Robin, an obviously skilled young man. Unfortunately, the boy was too naive and good-hearted to willingly take after a mercenary, and he was too hard-headed to accept any alternate world views. Deathstroke still would have liked to have him, but it no longer seemed very likely. The second attempt was a girl who was manipulated as easily as the rock she controlled with her powers. Alas, she was weak and had a last minute change of heart.

As much as he wanted a perfect blank slate, the Terminator decided he might have better luck with a child born into the world of assassins, someone who'd never known the light or good in the world. If they were young enough he could still model them after himself enough to create a good partner, but it would all depend on just who he found. But where does one simply find a child of assassins, available for training? In theory, he could just kidnap any boy or girl who showed a glimmer of potential, and raise them as his own, but kidnapping children was something that Deathstroke felt an animosity towards. It was one weakness, one thing he could never bring himself to do. Rarely was he hired for a kidnapping, and thankfully then it was almost always for the case of ransom. A few times the victim ended up killed, but at least the family always got back the body, he made sure of it.

So, he was left to try and dig up some source. Plenty of skilled mercenaries and assassins were trained practically from birth, so he knew it was possible. Two noticeable examples of this were the League of Assassins and the Court of Owls, but taking or even 'buying' an apprentice from them would be impossible, they were both exclusive, secretive and particular groups, and he wanted neither of them to be working against him as punishment. There had to be an easier way to go about it.

Deathstroke dug up information for months, searching for some unknown source of young potential killers. One night in particular, he came across rumors in an old database of a group whose name had been erased, a group that had strived to be a new group of assassins. The files were very vague, and there wasn't much information, but it was the first promising lead in weeks, and Deathstroke would take what he could find. Supposedly, there existed a young man who'd been trained in everything, by everyone, who was ruthless to the point of being psychotic. His endurance and pain toleration were off the charts, and he was immune to most drugs. He'd been passed from clan to clan since early childhood, a highly sought after prize, though his original home was unknown. The file didn't state anything about his 'current' whereabouts (even dated info would have been helpful) but it was enough to start on at least.

In another few weeks, Deathstroke had recovered more files, after hacking into more high-profile databases. Namely, that of the Justice League. A few tidbits along the way had hinted that the boy had fallen into the hands of Cadmus, which had been shut down by the JLA, with the cooperation of several world governments. It wasn't as if said governments didn't want ways to combat the Justice League if needed, but the experiments Cadmus had been performing and perfecting had been deemed inhumane, so they were forced to disband and abandon their research. Publicly, nothing was known about what became of any persons experimented on, metahuman and alien alike, but there were really only two places they could have gone. Either the government had them, or the JL themselves had them. Knowing how dangerous and possibly insane this boy would be, surely the League wouldn't have let him be taken by anyone else, and therefore would presumably take him into custody themselves. Knowing the heroes, Deathstroke guessed that they would attempt to rehabilitate him, but Cadmus had been shut down over a year ago, and the boy could be anywhere. Still, it was too perfect an opportunity to pass up.

He researched all possible locations, narrowing it down to the most secretive places. They didn't even have files on the boy's location, only a few notes about his existence in the Cadmus files, so they must want as few people as possible to know about him. It could be that not even every member of the League knew about him. That made Deathstroke wonder if they would even notice if he'd be taken. It all seemed almost too good to be true, but the man wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. He would keep his guard up until he had the boy and could find out for himself what the young man could do. This could turn out to be a waste of time. The child could be dead or completely useless to him, but the possibility of what could be was enough to risk it.

It was the nineteenth compound Deathstroke visited in which he found who he was looking for. The others had either been abandoned or contained things that were of no use to him. This one, however, was completely sealed off. It was in the middle of a wasteland, nothing but dry ground and death for at least a hundred miles in every direction. All doors and what could have been windows had steel barricades, leaving the whole building in quarantine. None of the other places Deathstroke had searched thus far had been so completely sealed up, which made this one seem promising. Although he still had no idea what he would find, he was sure that the boy was here.

While he worked on breaking in, Deathstroke reviewed what he knew about the boy in his head. He'd been trained by every great master since childhood, though no one knew where he originally came from. He'd been passed along as an apprentice to many, bought, given, or stolen, any of the three. He'd landed in Cadmus, in his mid-teens, according to the files, and from there they pushed to weaponize him, but while his physical training showed promise, his mind was already breaking. By the time the JLA took him into custody a year or two later, he was absolutely mad, and extremely dangerous for it. Information on everything that had happened to him in Cadmus had been destroyed, and Deathstroke had been unable to find much about it. What he did know about the types of experiments they performed, however, was enough to understand why this kid would be so messed up in the head.

The seams were weakened, and with a solid kick, Deathstroke brought down the door. He was greeted by darkness and the stench of decay. He waited a moment to see if anyone alive would stir, but the place seemed empty. He stepped in, eyes becoming used to the darkness and adjusting. It wasn't a big building, it was only made to imprison one person. It was made up of one large corridor, with a few rooms on either side, living spaces for the guards meant to watch over the place. A few cell-like bedrooms, a bathroom and even a room for eating. In the last room, the rotting smell of death greeted him, and Deathstroke didn't bother to check in there. The bodies, the sealed off building. He looked at the steel door at the end of the corridor, open just a crack with blood smearing the threshold, and he knew exactly what had happened here. He heard a shuffling sound beyond the steel door, and his thoughts were confirmed.

Deathstroke drew one of the swords from his back, and opened that door, letting light pour into the prison cell of the mysterious boy. The man took one step in, seeing a single figure curled up in the corner, tucked between the toilet and the sink, wearing dingy hospital scrubs. It did indeed look like the young man described in the files, so he approached cautiously. When he was an arm's length away the boy snapped, moving as quick as Deathstroke could blink, standing and spinning on one heel, driving a sharpened rusty pipe into the man's chest with a primal cry. Blood spurted, landing on the boy's face, since his head barely reached Deathstroke's shoulder in height. They were both still for a moment, and the boy looked up, meeting his victim's eyes. His own eyes, though it was too dark to tell their exact color, were wide and filled with a psychotic and desperate fear upon first glance. It faded into confusion, however when it was apparent that the man wasn't dead, as he should be.

Deathstroke moved just as quickly as the boy, snatching him up by the throat and holding up his sword in a threatening position. The boy gasped for breath, but Deathstroke was careful not to squeeze too tightly. The man decided to keep the pipe where it was for now, since it was keeping in most of his blood. He would heal just fine whether he took it out now or ten minutes from now. He coughed and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. "I'm impressed. You're fast, and strong, to pull off such a move. What's your name, boy?"

He lowered the young man enough that his feet touched the floor, and loosened his grip enough to allow speech. In a dry, rasping voice, the boy answered. "I don't have _one_."

Deathstroke noticed the emphasis on one, and guessed that the boy had been called by many names over the years with different masters. He pressed on to more important questions. "You killed your guards some time ago, and yet without any obvious source of food, you're in fighting condition. That, plus this inhibitor collar around your neck must mean you're metahuman. Tell me, if I stuck you to the wall with this sword, would it kill you?"

"…No," the boy finally answered. "At least not for a long time. No one's ever stuck a whole sword through me before, though."

Deathstroke dropped him, letting him fall to his knees, and taking a look at him. His hair and eye colors were light, but the exact shades of either were difficult to determine in the dark. The boy's hair might have been curly, or just extremely matted and tangled. The boy, despite his energy, was in terrible shape. His hair was starting to grow out, almost brushing his shoulders, and his nails were also uncut, merely broken and uneven. He seemed quite thin, and clearly hadn't seen water to drink or bathe in for who knows how long. The boy looked back up at him.

Deathstroke yanked the pipe out, it was starting to be uncomfortable, and he let himself bleed, dropping the makeshift weapon on the floor in front of the boy. Between that and letting him go, the man was making it clear that he didn't see the boy as a real threat.

"Who are you?" the child asked.

"Professionally, I'm Deathstroke the Terminator," the man didn't wait for a reaction, as he didn't expect the boy to know who he was, despite being raised by assassins. "How would you like to get out of here and come with me?"

"Go with you?" the boy asked. "Go where?"

"Everywhere," answered the man. "I came here to take you and train you as an apprentice, to follow in my footsteps. You aren't squeamish about killing, and you've been trained well."

The boy eyed the range of weapons Deathstroke carried, getting back up to his feet. "Are you another assassin?"

"I'm a mercenary," Deathstroke explained. "I kill people for money, but I do other things as well. Everything has a price, and it pays to expand one's skill set. You know how to kill efficiently, but I'll teach you so much more than that."

"What if I say no?" The boy glanced warily over Deathstroke's shoulder.

"The door is there, but there's nothing for miles. If you venture out on your own you may get captured again by someone less pleasant than I."

The boy thought over his options. Deathstroke knew it was possible that he could evade capture, but he decided not to point it out. He'd come too far to let his prize slip through his fingers, and he fully intended to take the boy with him. He would just prefer it if the boy came willingly, so that he didn't have to break him down like he'd tried to do with Robin. However, the boy was clearly reluctant to trust Deathstroke, so a bit more manipulation may be needed.

"I'm curious, do you enjoy killing?"

The boy looked up again, seeming surprised at the question. "Enjoy it?"

"Let me clarify. Do you look forward to the bloodshed? Does it make you happy to take the lives of others?"

"It's…thrilling," the boy answered after a moment of thought. "I've never done it to be happy. I only do it to survive." He looked up with intensity in his eyes, watching Deathstroke, trying to gauge the man's reaction to see if his answer had been the right one.

The man gave a simple nod. "I don't kill for fun, it's just my job. There are certain pleasures in doing a job well, and practicing one's skills, but killing is not something I enjoy in and of itself. I shall expect you to take after the same philosophies. There's a difference between a man for hire and a serial killer, and I can't have an apprentice running around wildly killing for the fun of it."

"I follow the orders of whoever's in charge," the boy answered, somewhat quickly. "I don't deviate."

"That attitude will do well to start," said Deathstroke. "Understand that I expect you to have a will of your own, especially down the road."

"I… you do?" The boy seemed shocked. "I mean, yes sir."

The young man was a bit twisted up in the head, that much was clear, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. It would still take a lot of work, to help the boy find the right balance between obedience and his own will, but to start with, strict obedience would have to do. Still, Deathstroke had a few more questions.

"Sit," he ordered firmly, pointing to the bed. The boy sat at once, and didn't seem to be planning anything. Now that Deathstroke had shown his power over the child, it only made sense that he would switch to a more submissive state rather than a defensive one. He couldn't fully trust that the boy wouldn't try anything, but he did trust himself to handle whatever was thrown at him by his potential apprentice. He walked out, finding a maintenance room and restarting the generator. Lights came back to life, humming as they slowly became brighter. By the time he reentered the room, he could get his first real look at the boy. His hair might have been blonde or light brown under all the dirt and blood. When he lifted his head Deathstroke could see that his eyes were green, and they had scars crossing over the eyelids.

The mercenary stood in front of the young man, bearing over him. There were still more questions to ask. "If you don't like to kill, why did you murder everyone here? No one ordered you to."

"I was trying to escape," the boy answered. "They shut down the building as soon as the guards set off an alarm. They let me kill everyone inside but I couldn't get out."

Deathstroke considered this. The Justice League would rather quarantine the boy and allow him to murder his innocent prison guards than let him run free. His value significantly rose in the man's eyes. But, where in the hell did he come from?

"I'm curious, what do you remember about your early life? Do you know who your family was or who first trained you?"

The boy just shrugged, looking away. "I have been ordered to forget the time before this life. It was forced out of me, like toothpaste out of a tube. I don't really remember anymore."

"You heal quickly I imagine and you appear to have great speed, agility, and stamina given your current circumstances," the man noted. "Did Cadmus give you these abilities?"

The boy flinched slightly at the name, remembering only terrible things about that place. "No, I was like this before. I think they were trying to make me better but I was never tested, so I don't know if they really did."

Deathstroke's mind was racing, cogs turning in his head. This boy… He reminded the man of himself in some ways, but also of… No. It was absolutely impossible, it was all in his head. Wishful thinking, nothing more. He'd already used Robin as a surrogate after Grant's death, he couldn't do the same thing to this boy; no matter how striking the similarities were. There was no way this boy, this violent assassin, could possibly be the child Deathstroke had once known. Still, he wanted to reassure himself, just to nip any suspicions in the bud before he unconsciously got his hopes up.

"Tell me the first name you remember being called."

The boy furrowed his brow, looking down at his lap while he concentrated. "I've always been ordered to forget my past, and with each new master, they gave me new things to remember and made me forget about old things that aren't important anymore. My name has changed a lot, and Cadmus…" he trailed off for a moment, so long that Deathstroke almost thought he was done speaking. "When they did their tests and experiments, it did a lot of things in my brain. Even the traces of things I could never, ever forget were erased."

Deathstroke pried further, wanting to get as much information out of this young man as possible, trying to put the pieces together. He was afraid he already knew the whole picture, that his hunch was correct. He was even more afraid that he would be wrong. "What types of things couldn't you forget?"

"I know I knew the man who first trained me." The boy shivered slightly. "After all these years I could always remember his name and his face, until Cadmus got me. I couldn't ever forget him, because he was the one who took me. What he did… I don't remember anymore but I know I knew it before. All that's left is the way it made me feel. Back then I was scared. Then I became angry." He shook his head, drawing back to sit against the wall, pulling his legs up. "I don't like to think about him too much."

Deathstroke couldn't keep himself from staring, watching the boy. Trying to see something recognizable, if he were being honest with himself. This man must have broken the boy down at a very young age, which explained how skilled the boy was now. Still, it left lasting psychological effects, ones that couldn't even be wiped from the brain with memories. Despite the great skill he showed, the boy was damaged, and may never function quite right. If Deathstroke had known this he may never have come, but now that he was here, he couldn't leave the boy behind. He needed more information.

"What was your last name? What did Cadmus call you, or the last person you worked under?"

The boy thought a moment, but didn't have to concentrate as hard. "They didn't call me by a name; they never really spoke to me. I was just… I wasn't even a person." He stopped once more for a moment, clearly not much happier with this line of thought than the previous one. "They referred to me as Project Jericho. It's the only name I can remember, but something about it fit better than other names people called me."

The files Deathstroke had stolen from the JL database had been partially destroyed and thus even the project name had been mostly censored, apart from the first letter. Of course, the name itself didn't mean anything, but it must feel familiar to the boy for a reason. Deathstroke was quiet for a few moments, considering the probability that he'd known this boy before today. He let out a heavy breath. "Do you remember… Did you ever have a family?"

The boy put his head in his hands, trying to think back as far as he could. He spoke quietly. "I guess I must have… I know the man I first trained under took me away from somewhere, so it might have been from my family. Then again, all anyone has ever told me was that I was unwanted. I'm just a tool, a soldier, a weapon." His voice grew thicker and he took a moment to stop. "I don't like talking about it. Why are you asking me these questions?"

"If you come with me, I need to know everything about you that I can," he answered simply. Truthfully, there was more to it than that, but he was still considering all his options. What if he was right, by some impossible chance?

"Will you really let me come with you?" The boy looked up at him, his eyes bright and expressive, against his dirty skin and dull hair. The look on his face made Deathstroke's heart skip a beat. He knew this face, those bright green eyes. He had to be right. No matter how improbable, the connections were all there.

He didn't answer, too caught up in overwhelming feelings. There was one way he could think of to know for sure, short of testing DNA or fingerprints. He took a hold of the inhibitor collar on the boy's neck, making him stiffen and flinch slightly. The man got down on one knee, leaning in closer to get the collar off. He had the tools, and the skill, but he was almost shaking with anticipation. The boy didn't say anything; he just sat stiff and still, waiting nervously. He almost always had some kind of collar over his throat, and having it bare made him feel vulnerable and exposed. Deathstroke removed the device with a click, and revealed a long white scar, running horizontally across the young man's throat. It was deeper and wider on one side, tapering to a thin line on the other end. It was exactly what Deathstroke was expecting, but he still wasn't prepared for the reality to hit him. He leaned back, eyes lowered as he tried to come to terms with the truth and decide what to say.

The boy put a hand over his scar, covering it. He had lots of scars but this one was different. This one, though he couldn't remember most of what happened, marked something significant. He knew that this was a scar from the first turning point in his life. The time that he'd been taken and thrust into a world where he had to kill to live. He knew this, but thinking about it caused his heart to clench up, and at times he would get panic attacks from remembering too much. His mind couldn't handle the truth anymore. This wound should have killed him, and he didn't want to think about who would do such a thing. His past was in the dark, and he preferred to keep it there. Scars were just memories imprinted on his body, and they were best covered up.

After a few moments of silence, Deathstroke spoke again. "I know who you were."

The boy flinched back once more. Despite the fear attached to them, it was still tempting to know the answers. He'd been trained to face his fears, after all. "What do you mean?"

"You were kidnapped from your family at six years old," the man continued, his voice grave. "Someone took you away and slit your throat, so that your family would think you were dead and not come for you."

The boy paled, seeming to tremble. Memories flashed in his mind, but a part of him fought to keep them down. The conflict was enough to bring a few tears of frustration to his eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"

Deathstroke didn't answer, only giving more of the same information. "Your name was Joseph. Your family loved you very much, but they were all torn apart after they thought you died."

"How do you know all of this?" the boy demanded, a few tears falling down. His mind was in a panic, torn between what he wanted to believe and what he was beginning to realize. He'd wrapped himself up in half-truths and lies, pretending that everything wasn't as bad as it really was. Forced to face the truth, and to realize how twisted everything was, became more than he could handle.

Deathstroke only sighed, seeing the boy's distress. This venture had started out so simple but now it was just a mess. He made a decision, and reached up to unclasp his mask. He removed it, revealing his white hair and goatee, one eye covered by a patch. He met the terrified gaze of the boy, Joseph, and held it steady, trying to relate the truth without causing too much trauma. "My name is Slade Wilson, and you're my son."

It was too much. The boy let out a cry, half screaming, half sobbing, curling forward and putting his face in his hands. He was shaking, remembering the truth of what happened. He'd never wanted this life; he hated the things that he'd done. Over the years he kept following orders to avoid punishment, and allowed himself to believe he liked it so that it didn't seem so bad. He'd been kidnapped, forced into servitude, and he had found a way to cope with it until now.

Slade leaned in again, wrapping his arms around his son, holding him tightly and doing his best to calm him down again. The idea still seemed unreal. Joseph had been dead for years, in the minds of his family. Slade had seen his throat get slit clean across and never would have guessed that any of his healing powers had been passed down to his youngest son. Within seconds, Joseph began to cling to him, still crying softly and trembling. He was reaching out for comfort, which Slade took as a good sign. He was highly inexperienced with calming someone in hysterics, but something in him that had been dead for almost a decade took over. His sons had died in front of him, but he was still a father, and he had his boy back again. He couldn't mess that up.

"I've got you," he said reassuringly. "You're safe now."


End file.
